I navigate the dilapidated corridors of the asylum, floorboards creaking under my every step. Once in a while, plaster rains down from the ceiling above. Creeping ivy and weeds have taken root in every nook and cranny of the old building. The place hasn't changed much in ten years, actually. It still holds that sense of foreboding, like it's whispering to me to leave while I still can.

Restless energy coils inside of me. There's something both exciting and revolting about returning here. I can't quite place my finger on it. My aura is telling me to run, to go, but how could I? I don't belong here, and my crisp school uniform compared to the rest of this place makes that obvious, but I can't leave. Not just yet.

I reach what used to be the common area. Daylight filters in from the windows, allowing me to see a bit better. The scene reminds me of an abandoned plant conservatory; nearly everything is covered in stubborn ivy. Cracked pillars keep the ceiling above me from the edge of collapse. An old couch, a mirror and a table are the only furniture present. Opposite me, a spiraling staircase sits under piles of debris. If I remember correctly, the stairs would've led to the men's wards.

I study my reflection in the mirror beside the couch. Someone must've cleaned it; I can see myself clearly. A girl with evenly parted hair, a crisp school blazer and perfect posture smiles back at me. Good, good.

Ice skitters down my spine, and the hair on my neck stands up. Something in the corner of the mirror catches my eye. Behind me, air and dust have begun to swirl together. I watch as they eventually form the faint outline of a man.

I square my shoulders. "Hello, Father."

His reflection smiles. "Lin. I'm so glad to see you."

I keep myself faced towards the mirror, preferring that over the alternative. "Considering how much you couldn't stand the sight of me, that's a surprise."

His voice dips, like the gentle swoop of a bird. "This time is different. I'm different."

"Clearly. You're dead."

My lip curls as he casts his eyes downward. Shame. For once, I get to see what shame looks like on Father.

"How are you?" he asks. "Is my daughter happy?"

"I'm fine. Great, actually." I proceed to feed him the white lies I've prepared in advance. Yes, I was finally elected as school president, fulfilling one of Father's countless expectations. Yes, my pitch-perfect grades have won me several recognition awards. And yes, I have shockingly made many friends.

But I don't mention that I couldn't care less about being school president. Nor do I admit my grades are high only because I constantly charmspeak my teachers into thinking I'm their top student. Oh, and the "friends" thing. I barely talk to any of them.

Father nods, satisfied. "I'm happy you've finally taken a liking to school. It's much more important than you realize."

His sole excuse for forcing me into his image of the "perfect daughter". It wasn't enough that I was decent. I had to be exceptional. I had to outshine everyone in every way possible, and in the ways that mattered to Father. Even after his death, I haven't been able to shake off his words. Like in some way, he's still pulling the puppet strings.

"Good thing I came to my senses," I force out.

Father's smile deepens into a scowl. "Off with that glamour," he snaps.

I roll my eyes. "Is 'please' so hard to—?"

"Do what I say!"

"Tch." I snap my fingers. My school uniform ripples, then morphs into a denim jacket and ripped jeans. Bracelets and charms, cleverly embossed with hidden runes, reveal themselves adorning my wrists. I check out my reflection again and admire the elaborate braids that wrap around my head. The ancient hairstyle might be weird to some, but for me, it reminds me of who I really am.

Father grunts. "Just as improper as I remember. I'm not surprised."

"If 'improper' means not obeying your every command like a trained dog, I'm all for it."

He slices me a glare. "What an insolent girl," he seethes, "talking back to your father like that. All I wanted was for you to be normal. Was that too much to ask? And yet you're still the monstrosity you were all those years ago."

I snort, fighting the shame that threatens to show on my cheeks. "At least that's one thing we have in common."

You would think loving your kid wouldn't be so very difficult. Even a kid that happens to be magically gifted deserves some love, right? But no. Ever since he witnessed me flying on my broomstick, Father couldn't stand my existence.

I still have nightmares about him. About Father screaming foul names at me, breaking things, and making my life more miserable than his own. I suppose being shipped off to the asylum only made him more determined to cling in my dreams like a stubborn parasite.

A "normal" father wouldn't have done any of that. Only a monster would.

I decide to change the topic. "How was your time in the asylum, Father? I do hope you enjoyed it."

I pose the question as a mockery, but he answers solemnly. "It helped me a lot. The staff were...unimaginably kind. They accepted me. Understood me. Talking with the other patients helped too, if only to remind ourselves we weren't suffering alone. I felt happy here."

Happy?

Happy?

I swallow. Father didn't deserve to be happy. Ever.

"And...what about the others?" I get out. "Are they here?"

"They left. No point in staying if your home is going to be demolished by the city."

"You stayed."

A smile. "Yes. For you."

Lies, lies, lies. He wanted to worm his way into my mind, my dreams, my life. He didn't want me to be free.

As if reading my mind, he says, "I waited this long because I love you, Lin."

I grind my teeth. "You have a hell of a way of showing love. Do you have any idea what you put me through?"

He sighs. "Lin, try to understand that I was not perfect."

"So you couldn't be perfect, but I had to?" I hiss. "All you did was expect me to be something I never was, and never will be. A normal—no, a real father would've loved me." My voice breaks. "And you couldn't even do that."

"What is there to love?"

Silence.

"You're nothing. Nothing but a coward. You can't even turn around and face me."

I can't breathe, like I'm drowning in his words.

"You think you're so noble, fighting to stay true to yourself, but do you know what you really are? Because I do." Step by step, he comes closer until he's right behind me. His words, dripping with contempt, slithers into my ears. "You are weak. Pathetic. You are nothing more than a little witch who is too afraid to face the truth.

"The truth is, no one will ever love a monster like you."

I whip around. With a flick of my fingers, the mirror behind me shatters. Shards fly everywhere and land on the floor.

"What do you know?" he says smugly. "I was right."

I glare at him. Not at his reflection, but the real him that stands before me. "I hate you. I hate you!" I scream.

Disgust is written across his wispy features. "A shame you turned out this way. You will regret this." He dissolves into slivers of shadow, and then nothing.

I can't move. My hands are shaking, I feel sick to the stomach, but I stay rooted to the spot.

It wasn't like I barely use my magic; I use it all the time. It wasn't like shattering the mirror took a lot of energy, either. So why does this time feel so...different? Wrong, even?

No, it wasn't wrong. It was anything but wrong.

For no reason in particular, I conjure up a ball of fire in my palm. Tongues of red and yellow flame crackle to life, illuminating the dim surroundings. Something inside me warms.

It's refreshing, using my magic for something other than disguising myself as a normal person.

At a young age, I learned that people valued uniformity. Whoever was different were to be shipped off to another place, sectioned off from the rest of the world. Places like this asylum. Father had already treated me badly enough, and I didn't want the world to do the same. So I conformed myself. I played their game so well, I eventually wanted to be normal—both on the inside and out. But it took me some time to realize that wasn't my dream. It was Father's.

Initially, I came here to confront him. I wanted to rid myself of all of it: the nightmares, the constant internal pressure to be normal, and everything else that started because of Father. I thought that after all these years, facing him in the flesh would have finally snapped me free from his phantom puppet strings.

But something tells me it wasn't enough.

I walk around the space, not sure what to do. Glass pieces crunch beneath my feet. I scan the floor. The scattered shards reflect the glow of my flames, giving the illusion that the asylum is on fire.

Fire.

I can feel my soul burning, like what I've held back for years can't be contained for any longer. Slowly, I allow my fireball to grow in size.

If this won't erase him for good, I don't know what will.

Acting on a whim, I send an orb of fire into every corner of the room. Plumes of fire begin to consume the walls, the ivy. I concentrate on intensifying the blaze, offering pieces of my nightmares and rage as kindling. The flames gladly eat them up. I close my eyes as smoke clouds my vision. The roar in my ears becomes deafening, but also quiet.

I make it out of the building in time. After escaping to a hill overlooking the scene, I watch. Embers and smoke rise into the air, dissolving within the burnt orange sky. Father claimed that the souls of the patients have moved on from that depressing place. I think he was lying.

I think I still hate Father. I think I still hate myself too. But watching the spectacle, I decide this is the best way to start anew—both for the patients, and myself.